


Hand-Me-Down

by dentinthesystem



Series: Days of Our Lives [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Preseries, Young Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentinthesystem/pseuds/dentinthesystem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage Sam reflects on his life, and the first rebellious notions that have already rooted themselves in his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand-Me-Down

Sam’s life was stitched together with hand-me-downs. The hand-me-down boots, still too large, encasing his feet as he swung idly in the empty park. The hand-me-down gloves that absently gripped the metal chain, as eyes that looked like his mother’s gazed down the path to the motel, where his hand-me-down backpack sat waiting with his few hand-me-down possessions. Even his purpose was hand-me-down.

It had occurred to him a few times before – not that he’d ever voiced it. It wasn’t materialism that was eating away at him – no, merely the overwhelmingly forced, used quality of it all. Of his _life._ Told what to think; told what to do. The hand-me-down quest for revenge drilled into his brain. The hand-me-down mission to find a demon that was long gone; even the desire to complete the task was hand-me-down.

Dean had come across it first.

Then, whether he struggled with the concept or not, the entirety of the maddened hand-me-down quest had been pinned to him. As if Dean had stuck it proudly it to his jacket, _Here you go, Sammy. Just like your brother._

Sam had admired Dean practically since the time he could form coherent thoughts, urged himself to be more like him. But never in all his childhood had he fully realized that this was precisely what his father had been doing to him – drilling it into his mind, to be more obedient. To be more courageous. To be more like _Dean._

Hand-me-down jacket, hand-me-down boy, hand-me-down destiny. Hand-me-down, as if the life he was expected to live had been physically thrust into his palms.

But he couldn’t be like Dean; he _couldn’t_. Try as he might, he couldn’t drill the doubt from his mind, couldn’t force himself to swallow back the sick taste in his mouth, blindly following orders. He couldn’t trust that their father was constantly correct – or even correct to begin with. Maybe he had it all wrong. Why couldn’t Dean see it?

When he was very young, he’d aspired to be a superhero, like his Daddy. Now, all that could truly occur to him was that he wanted to be a writer – it was simple; it was neat; he was good at it. There was no constant threat of peril or physical endangerment. He could change the world, the way people _thought_ , without ever even needing to open his mouth. What more could he ask?

But what was he thinking, entertaining notions of leaving the Life? Dean would go nuts if he uttered this aloud – or perhaps he’d just look at him in that slack-jawed, wide-eyed way that made Sam’s stomach curl, a warmth creep up his neck. He couldn’t do that to his brother – couldn’t conflict a mind that was so blissfully determined in it’s correctness.

Dean said he didn’t believe in God. This was a lie. He believed in the stupendous power of John Winchester. His words were law, a verbal bible. His grunts and sideways glances were omens and prophesies. The ground he walked was blessed; who else could pick as clever a path as Dad?

In the end, sitting in whatever distant hiding place he’d discovered by their latest motel, Sam had dragged himself back to his feet. He’d made his way back. Because who cared, really, if his father was infuriated – it stung to see that hate, but it stung more to be in that heavy presence of his, questioned constantly, challenged over the most insignificant things. But it all built up to the same – couldn’t he be a little quicker on his feet, a bit of a better hunter, a bit wearier? Hell, Sammy – why can’t you be like your brother for once?

But Sam could spot that hurt in Dean’s eyes too. That same overwhelming pressure eating the two of them. To protect little Sam, take care of the kid brother that was no longer a kid. Because, if he didn’t, what was the point to it? No one to accept that hand-me-down purpose.

But still – every day, Sam picked himself up, trudged back into that hotel room where his father was drinking or grumbling, and his brother was watching pay-per-views, or sharpening his knives. And, in the end, that’s what counts.


End file.
